Flames danced in the shadow half light of dusk, the cold damp wind of early spring making Tamarin sweat even as it chilled him. He pulled his heavy wool cloak tighter, grateful for its warmth as he empathized with the poor blindfolded girl standing barefoot and alone in the village square, buried ankle deep in muck with nothing more than a simple white linen shift and a fall of dark hair to keep out the cold. The fire struck red sparks from her hair, but the warmth suggested by that light did nothing to assuage the her shivering. The hem of her shift trailed in the mud and stuck to her legs, the soggy fabric dragging the garment down tight over her chest, and Tamarin could see her erect nipples through the thin fabric as she shivered.

He wanted to run to her, give her his cloak, say that he still loved her and set her free, but he knew she would never allow him to. "It is my duty" she had told him, placing the soft, squirming bundle in his arms before they blindfolded her. "You must forget my human self, and then you shall see me everywhere you go, in the beauty of the shire, the sweetness of the fruit, the pure water from the lakes and wells." Then her beautiful brown eyes had been bound, and she fell silent, believing he would never see or hear her again.

Did she not realize how wrong she was? He turned his head from her still form, knowing she would not notice, and pulled back the edge of his cloak long enough to look at the sleeping babe, swathed in the blankets she had made for her as they discussed the girl child's future before the Seer had her vision. The babe shifted in her sleep when the chill night air caressed soft skin, but she did not wake. Tamarin smoothed a bit of soft hair beneath his fingers, relishing the warmth of his daughter's skin, the life that pulsed in his arms. She opened her eyes, brilliant green gems in her squished baby face, and a tiny arm found it's way out of the bundle of limbs and blankets to grab a bit of his fiery hair dangling between them. Smiling in spite of himself, Tamarin looked up again at the girl. She had turned her back to him.

There were a great many people about, for all that the girl stood alone and silent and blindfolded. Folk from the twelve villages of the Porsha shire had converged this night upon Joria in this resurrection of long abandoned sacrifice. They milled about the square, visiting with both relatives seen only rarely throughout the year or friends seen daily. They laughed and joked and planned for the future, mindless of the girl standing silent, forbidden to speak, to see, to feel the warmth and light of the coming celebration, seemingly ignorant of the young man who did not rejoice.

"Do not interfere with the gifting, lest the Wolfman take your child as well as the mother." Tamarin jumped in startlement, hurriedly covering his daughter as he searched wildly for the owner of the voice that had spoken in his ear, dropping his eyes when he found her

Tamarin refused to look at the Seer, afraid her blind eyes would bear witness to his hate and fear, condemn him to a death crueler and more definite than the unknown fate of the sacrifice. There had been steel in her voice, a warning. Tamarin clutched the babe to his chest, forcing his eyes to remain dry. He must not look at his daughter again, not until the mother was gone, lest he do something foolish. The girl had turned away, as if to spare him the sight or her familiar face, freeing his gaze so that he might concentrate on something else. Perhaps it was her last gift to him. Yet he could not simply ignore the fire that burned in him, crying out that this was wrong, unjust, and he concentrated on the witch.

The blind woman must have felt his eyes upon her, for she turned to face him, beckoning with a pale hand. He felt her call, and was unable to resist the summons. He picked his way across the muck to stand before her, meeting her gaze defiantly even as he quailed within for fear that she would punish him for his rebellious thoughts.

"It is almost time" she told him, the steel in her voice cutting him. "You still burn with anger, that I have named her sacrifice. You would do well to quell that fire, lest sear your soul." She took his right arm before Tamarin could move away, turning him so that he stood at her left side. The conversation of those folk closest to them took on a new, furtive air, and Tamarin forced their voices into the back of his mind. They might question his worth and his right to stand by the seer as she performed the gifting ritual, but there was no doubt in him that she had placed him at her side, not to honor him, but to keep him from interfering.

A horn sounded, three short bursts followed by a long, drawn out wail that his head to ringing. The baby roused at the sound, and Tamarin rocked her, willing her back to sleep. As the last of the sound faded, a profound silence filled the square, the calm before the storm of celebration. All who were within sight of the girl would have closed their eyes, temporarily blind. It was a sign of respect to the maiden, her last moment of privacy. Only Tamarin did not close his eyes. The witch gripped his arm like a manacle, as if she thought he might rush to her aid. Three heartbeats the silence lasted, four. . . the snuffling of a puppy escaped in the solemn pause to sniff at the girl's bedraggled hem. A pink tongue flicked against her bare ankle, and Tamarin could almost feel her restraining herself from giggling. Her ankles were ticklish.

"Lithia" he whispered, breaking the silence. Hot tears trailed down his cheeks, blurred his vision. The viselike hold on his arm released, and the seer stepped forth to begin the ritual that would summon the Wolfman to the town.

Amret watched the ritual proceedings from the window of her small room in the Dancing Lizard, Joria's best. . . and only. . . inn. The dark-haired waif standing blindfolded in the center of the town square swayed ever so slightly as she stood rigid in the mud, wearing little more than a flimsy white nightshirt. Perhaps the villagers believed she would be dead in a few hours, and so her clothing was of little consequence. Maybe she would be. Forest demons had varying reasons for their demands, but whether the girl was wanted for her blood or her body, or some other reason, neither the villagers nor Amret were privy to that knowledge.

The Seeress of Kent herself would bear witness as the girl taken by the Wolfman this night. Even now she stood at the edge of the crowd, just upon the border of empty space separating the girl from her folk. Two men stood on either side of the seer, one young, the other of middle years. The older man was the village head, and he stood at the seer's right hand, prepared to welcome the Wolfman once the Seer had performed the ritual that would call him from the trees to claim his yearly price. In the place of honor on the woman's left stood a youth, his hair flaming in the torch light. She did not know who he was nor he stood by the seer, but his eyes did not leave the girl during the ritual silence, and Amret could see the wetness of tears on his cheeks glistening in the torch lit square below. Alone of all those assembled did this boy openly weep for the girl.

The silence was absolute, and Amret found herself holding her breath. Her eyes were locked not on the girl or the inquisitive puppy at her feet, but on the young man as he watched her.

"Lithia".

Soft, almost inaudible, but Amret heard him clearly, and the sorrow in his voice pierced her heart. Whispering started up amongst the gathered folk, but was quickly silenced as the seer stepped forth into the empty circle and approached the girl. The young man's head fell, and he buried his face in the bundle he held against his chest. Amret did not want to look away from him, but the girl was her responsibility, not the young man. She forced her attention back upon the seer. She had removed the girl's blindfold, remarkably adept for a blind woman.

"Folk of Porsha!" she cried, her high voice filling the square. "You have done well to gather this night to witness your sacrifice. I saw the girl Lithia in my Sight, and she came willingly to this place of honor, though the cost be her life." She took the girl Lithia's hands in her own, drawing her forward so that she might free her feet from the hardening muck of the square. "Are you prepared, child?"

"Aye."

The seer let the girl's hands drop, and summoned the village head forward. She laid a hand upon his arm and was blind once more, relying on him as he led her to back to their place on the edge of the circle. The youth was gone, and Amret felt an unsettling twinge of fear, a desperate need to find him. She quashed the feeling, berating herself for the distraction. The seer was chanting, the ritual words that would summon the Wolfman from the wood. A mist fell over the assembled villagers, dimming the torches. Several guttered out, hissing in the unnatural fog. Frightened whispers filled the heavy air, and Amret gathered energy into herself as she climbed out of the window and onto the sloping roof, then dropped lightly to the ground one story below. The mist hid her as easily, and she slipped into the shadows at the edges of the crowd, searching with her sorceress sense to pinpoint the source of the enchantment that so intimidated the villagers.

She was not expecting what she found. Not one, but two sorcerous presences, one of such darkness that Amret felt her mind turn aside from the shadows where it lay in wait, forcing her to focus on the lesser. For only a moment did she linger on that greater darkness before it was lost to her awareness.

She stalked the darkness, hunting the Wolfman as he approached the awaiting sacrifice. An uneasiness tickled at her, warning of approaching danger and confounding her senses. She turned, expecting to find the Wolfman about to pounce on her back, but she found only empty shadows. The darkness deepened for a moment, a veil passed over her eyes, and a brief dizziness dropped Amret to her knees.

The dizziness passed, leaving only a vague queasiness. The mist thickened, blotting out the last of the torch light, and Amret watched fall to their knees as a silver light filled the darkness. The Wolfman had already arrived, a silver-gray figure illuminated by his own light, the girl Lithia at his side.

"No!" she whimpered, struggling to understand what had happened. She felt woozy and drunk, bereft of energy. Digging her fingers into the hardening mud, reaching deep for the raw power of the earth, Amret listened to the Wolfman as he spoke to the villagers, thanking them for their worthy sacrifice, promising them a year of prosperity beyond their wildest dreams, warning them that if they ever defied him, the shire and all it's inhabitants would be his prey. She could hear the lie in his voice, words that did not ring true, though the Wolfman himself did not seem aware of it. Amret could feel his aura, the sorcery that was a part of him, the source of the mist. It did not feel strong enough to have brought her so low, stripping her of her very strength, but there was no other explanation. Somehow he had sensed her coming, and acted to prevent her from interrupting the ritual. Well, she wasn't out of it yet.

At last, the energy she drew from the earth was enough, and she shaped fire in her mind, ready to shape it into a weapon that would kill the Wolfman. She struggled to her feet, allowing the warmth of her fire to chase out the chill and weakness, and walked towards the glowing village center. Her steps were unsteady at first, but by the time she reached the edge of the circle, she was steady and calm, prepared for battle.

The crowd had parted, and the Wolfman and his tribute walked hand in hand down the path they had made. Her gaze only lingered on the wolf-man for a heartbeat, quickly drawn to the girl at his side. For the first time since arriving in Joria did Amret see Lithia up close, but she did not see the pale, half frozen girl who had stood in the muck all day awaiting her fate, but a laughing maiden with flowers in her hair, bright yellow dandelions as bright as her radiant smile. Pain pulsed behind her eyes, robbing Amret of breath, as she remembered the vision shown her by the herb witch in Farthen.

A red headed young man, laughing as he threaded dandelions into a young girl's hair. Eyes as brown as the earth itself shining with joy as she smiled, melting the heart of he who gifted her with flowers.

"Stop!" she gasped, staggering forward, caught in the double vision. "You shall not have her!" The Wolfman his gaze upon her, his silver light flaring, illuminating the sleek silver-gray fur that clothed his lean body. He dropped the girl's hand and fell to hands and knees, his body shifting to that of a full blood wolf before touching earth. Amret ignited flame in her hand, a ball of fire golden fire to rival his silver.

The wolf pounced, attempting to catch her unprepared, but Amret shaped her golden light into a sword, swinging the blade before her, clashing with the silvery talons of the beast. Her arms burned as the magic of her blade resonated against the magic of the Wolfman, but she did not lose control, and so she was ready for the creature's next charge, dragging the flaming weapon down the wolf's side as its paws slammed into her chest, dropping her to the ground. She temporarily lost control from the shock of landing, and the wolf took advantage of her lapse.

Massive jaws closed on her shoulder, tearing muscle and grating against bone. In another moment he would tear her apart, but a moment was all she needed, the intense pain of being mauled thrusting Amret back to her senses, and she shaped the fire in her hands into fistfuls of stiletto blades that pierced the wolf's massive body. The jaws released her, and Amret felt the wash of hot blood pouring from the gaping tears in her shoulder, the droplets of blood and saliva dripping from the monster's jaws as it howled in pain while she sliced it's insides apart with fire.

Amret could feel the life draining from the beast, bit it still fought her, trying to close it's jaws on her neck, her shoulder, anywhere so that he might bleed her to death. She could no longer shape the fire, and was forced to fend it off with her hands and knees, struggling to keep jaws and claws from tearing her to shreds. Beyond the wolf's shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the girl standing stricken beside the wolf, her face a mask of fear and confusion, a cloth-wrapped bundle held carelessly in her arms. Someone stood at her side, but Amret did not see the face of the newcomer, for the wolf had rallied the last of it's strength, shifted back to his man form, was strangling her. . .

Another wash of hot blood, not from her own body but spilling on her from above, filling her mouth with its disgusting metallic taste. The part of her that was a sorcerous responded to the power in that blood, but her human nature recoiled, and Amret gagged, spitting out the wolf's life blood and shoving away the now dead weight that lay on top of her. When the creatures heart finally stopped, the enchanted mist dispersed, and the torches flared back to life, illuminating Joria in harsh red light. Wiping the blood from her eyes and mouth, she found herself witnessing yet another double vision, this time of the young fieryhaired youth that so doted upon the sacrifice.

He was not looking at Amret, but rather at the girl, gibbering in terror as she took in the carnage that had once been the demon spirit of the shire. At first Amret thought he tried to comfort her, but she soon realized that he was trying to pry her arms loose from the bundle she clutched to her, a bundle that seemed to by crying. A baby.

"Let it go" she croaked, struggling to sit. The pain was to great, and Amret lay back on the ground, covering the shoulder with her right hand and forcing the fingers of her left into the dirt, calling up the power she needed to heal the wound enough to let her go on. It came quicker than it should have, but she did not care, simply relieved that the pain was receding. "You'll smother it."

At last the young man wrestled the crying child from his lover's arms, and he dropped to his knees beside Amret while Lithia continued to blubber above them. The man's eyes glittered as he looked into hers, a well of hope and life that belied the increasing volume of terrified crying and wails of Lithia and her fellow shire folk, and Amret was submerged once more in visions.

The youth with flaming hair, weeping as he held a babe in arms steeped with blood. Singing songs of joy to the girl, even as the brilliance of his eyes dimmed with each phrase. Amret herself, surrounded by flames. Holding a toddling girl child on her lap, twirling thick red curls between her fingers as she called flames to her fingertips to entertain her. Approaching shadows, as all light was sucked from the world, and she fell into the abyss. A young woman, a shaft of silver-white flame burning in her grasp as she stood firm before the approaching darkness. . .

The visions continued, some of them images seen in Farthen during her fever, but most of them new, glimpses of faces she would never meet in her lifetime, cities she had never seen, songs she had never heard but were familiar, and always the young woman standing between the darkness and the rest of the world, silver fire at her command. Her hair was made of flame, and her eyes were like leaves in spring. Gift's of her father.

The visions seemed to last an eternity, but in truth only a few moments had passed, for when at last Amret's sight cleared she could still hear the wailing of the villagers, could feel the weight of the young man's hope as he offered her a hand so that she might sit up. Her shoulder felt horrendous, but no longer threatened to be the cause of her own death, and the pain of the lacerations on her arms and legs from the wolf's claws rivaled her shoulder for dominance. She nodded mutely in thanks, still breathless from the strength of the visions, and was unable to cry out as a shadow deeper than the darkest night surrounded the crying Lithia.

The young man must have seen the change in her eyes, for he staggered to his feet and whirled to face the shadow that had taken the shape of a man. Lithia did not appear to notice as her chin was pulled up, exposing her white throat, and made no indication of pain as a black knife silenced her, sighing only once before her body grew limp, the spreading stain of her blood that dyed hr shift almost black in the harsh torch light. The shadow vanished and Lithia crumpled to the ground.

"No! Lithia!" For the second time that night, the young man's anguished voice filled the emptiness of the village square, only this time, rather than breaking silence, he created it. The wailing stopped, the grief in that one cry shattering the spell the Wolfman and the shadow man had cast over them, and they remained where they were, kneeling or standing woodenly as they watched this man, their neighbor, friend, shire man, fall to his knees to gather the dead girl into his arms.

If not for Amret, the babe would have been crushed between them, but she caught the bundle as it slid from his arms and cradled it against her breast, rocking the crying girl gently as her father cried into her mother's hair. She did not move from her spot on the cold ground, nor did she look away from the scene of grief, knowing she must bear witness. There was the sound of the villagers moving about, rousing themselves from their shock, but none came close to the four of them, and soon Amret knew they were alone in the square.

She could not have looked away, even had she wanted to, because she kept hearing the same words in her head, over and over again, a fragment of prophecy not from the herb witch in Farthen, but from much further in the past, the words of an old madwoman told to a lost little girl in the marketplace of Calla, capital city of Othriam, the memory perfect and complete as it had not been since that long forgotten day.

When the heart's light stands of the verge of death
the Father's fire shall be quenched
But hope shall still live on in his eyes
Yet even hope shall be extinguished
Should the Mother die.

When at last the young man laid his lover back to the ground and turned to look at her failure of a savior, Amret saw only despair where had once lived the light of hope. The five-year-old's memory was harp and clear in her mind, and twenty-three-year-old woman crying out in horror and dismay. There had been more to the prophecy, though the rest was still shrouded in the mishmash of her childhood memories, but all Amret knew was that she had had failed before even beginning.

He did not accuse her of failure, did not blame her for his Lithia's death, nor ask for an explanation, why she was taken from him even after the Wolfman had been slain. Even if he had, Amret would have had no answers to give him. Neither did he take his child from her and walk away, to join his villagers in their silent vigil within their homes as they waited for the dawn and the unknown tomorrow.

Instead, he knelt before her and spoke softly to her, words of comfort for a stranger that must be costing him dearly, and he gifted her with his name, Tamarin.

"Tamarin" she whispered, meeting his eyes once more. "I am Amret. Please forgive my failure."

Tamarin said nothing in response to her request for forgiveness, merely took her arm and helped her to her feet. Only then did he take back his child, hugging and rocking her gently as he turned his back on the bloody white-clad corpse at his feet. Amret waited for him to leave, walk away from the death and blood, and she would flee Joria and her folly, return to her master and beg for guidance.

Tamarin did not leave her behind; instead he took her arm and led Amret to one of the small houses or Joria, ushered her into the dark, close interior, and pushed her down onto the bed he had shared with Lithia, bidding her sleep. Amret wanted to protest, dumbfounded that he would allow her into his home, but once he had her lying down, she could not resist the demands of her exhausted, hurting body, and fell asleep.